In

Temperature reads cold and windy and I'm wearing orange to make things warm. Seems there isn't an alternative. Two sick kids, one sleeping and not sick. Been in the house for two days without leaving. Think that's called housebound in some parts. Aidan and I entertain ourselves with mirrors and sunflowers and crayons and light. Lucky for the light, if you can call it luck. Lucky for love, if you can call it love. March brings emptiness, usually, and sickness. When the lion creeps in, quick and quiet like, I try to fill up. With baking and telephone, with Margaret Atwood in interview form, the way I like her, a baby to breast, loud words through the walls. Chocolate. I fill and fill. I feel until I'm full, emptiness growing smaller, a receding eye, a waning moon, a single pin prick.